


bruises bloom

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Desire, F/F, Fighting, Thoughtful and Ill-Advised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 01:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14606499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: one-shot // eve p.o.v. // set in a possible future // Things are changing for Eve, for the better and most definitely for the worse





	bruises bloom

/ / /

It feels a bit like a dream, all hazy and dark and warm. You – caught unawares, for the hundredth time, and shock gives way to trembling, tiny fissures within your foundation now blown wide.

And her – mostly in charge of it all.

But you catch it before it flutters away, there at the corner of her mouth, there in pupils that slowly dilate, there in the way she leans in before she can stop herself completely.

You catch it, her sliver of weakness, and it does what it always does to you – it emboldens you.

So much so that you forget your horrible lack of training, forget that she's the killer in your midst, forget that she's just letting you live and that you are forever dancing around a landmine of your own choosing.

You dig your nails into her arm, the one that rests far too comfortably at your waist, and you quickly drag them down, pushing your legs forward at the same time. You've got a gun now, tucked away in that stupid drawer full of batteries and duct tape and all the randomness of your life, and you knock into a chair or two as you stumble from her – stumbling with intent, sure, but clumsy all the same.

“Seriously?”

Her voice – her annoying, terrifying, lovely voice – isn't so much angry as it sounds vaguely vexed, like you are a gnat that just won't leave her alone.

By the time the gun is in your hands, though, she is right in front of you, her body like a battering ram. You don't let go, your refuse to let go, but you curse all the same as your lower back is shoved very painfully into the table's edge.

She's gripping your wrists, just like not so long ago, and her jaw is set. You take a brief moment to glance at her arm, where you have dully marked her, and four red lines stand out against olive-toned flesh and something inside of you breaks loose, swims free around and around your buzzing brain.

It's heady, this feeling. Then again, it always has been. Whatever it is they are doing with each other.

Mind-games. Teasing with the truth. Grappling with what they know and what they can never seem to suss out. And now this, whatever this is.

You are breathing so heavy now that you feel lightheaded and she grips you harder, hard enough to cause you to wince, and you've not been trained for this – not for any of this, really – and she grips your wrists even harder, twisting until you burn, and the pain escapes your lips as you drop the gun and it clatters to the ground.

You're mad, so fucking mad, and even though it is idiotic, you are boiling over with wanting to hurt her, to best her somehow, to beat her.

That's when her lips collide with your own, kiss like a punch, and suddenly you don't know what the hell you want anymore.

/

You wear it. Rarely, but you do. You hope she never catches it on you again.

At least, that's what you say to yourself, in front of the mirror, staring blankly as you brush your teeth and wash your face and get dressed. That's the line you've got to feed yourself because the alternative is far too fucked up.

And truly, reality is already a mess.

You trail her, connect the dots, follow the leads. You talk with informants and you promise things, you say less and you hide more. You are changing, every single day, into someone that you don't actually know...

...at least, that's what you say to yourself.

/

You are getting better at knowing when she is there and you can see that it bothers her and pleases her at the same time.

“I'll hide underneath your bed next time.”

She smiles – that wicked, irritating, charming smile – and you keep your back to the wall, wise enough to keep your gun on your person these days. You keep your arms relaxed, tilt your head to the side and raise your eyebrows.

“Don't be here next time.”

She chuckles at you, like you are fool, and you are – the biggest of fools. And maybe you've toughened up a bit, but you still subtly flinch when she gets up and stalks toward you. You flinch and she sees it and she lights up.

Still, the gun is out and pointed at her chest and her boots squeak just a little as she comes to an abrupt halt. And seeing her freeze, if only for a moment or two, is enough to make you giddy. And you hate how much you enjoy this, whatever this is, whatever it is you are doing with her.

God, you hate how much you want to keep doing this with her.

She reaches out so swiftly, knocking your arm back and your finger slips just a bit on the trigger – which sobers you up, causing your breath to catch in your lungs – but she doesn't make a move to take it away from you, not like before.

“You want to fight me? Do it without that.”

Her face is too close. Her voice is too calm. Her everything is overwhelming and it's like she is reading your mind, recognizing your need for control and for a settling of scores, and you want to push her, you want to rip her apart, you want to know why she is the way she is, you want to know why you are the way you are.

You want to know why you want her so goddamn badly.

/

She left it where no one could see it. A rare and unexpected act of... something. Not kindness, but something. And you do your best to ignore it, until you cannot, and then you study it the way you have studied her.

The shape. The color. How it feels when you press your fingertips against it. A delicious, damning sting. Fascination and repulsion all in one space.

_Shoving and pushing, her shoulders like a wall, tears falling without consent, a slap to your face and a growl from her chest, recklessness and restraint blazing between your bodies. Your palm firm at her throat, hot breath coming in a rush. Her hipbone jammed into your abdomen, her parted lips so very near..._

And then you put it away again. Tuck all of this away again. You lower your shirt hem and quickly pull your pants up once more.

/

Somewhere in your subconscious, she holds you fast, no room for air, and you wake up gasping. 

It's been like this for days, weeks even, and it's as if sleep has decided that you no longer need it. So you read, sometimes case files, sometimes a paragraph or two of some bestseller collecting dust on the coffee table. You might drink wine. Lots of wine. Sometimes you drink ice-cold water and pace the floor. Every so often, you put your jacket on and go outside, wander the sidewalks in silence.

You get tired, eventually, and you lay down on the couch. Tired enough to drift into some kind of slumber, deep enough to have a myriad of images flicker behind your closed eyes – snapshots of your life, distorted and disjointed, leaving you with the groggy feeling of falling, falling but never hitting the ground, and someone chasing you or you chasing them, the hunter and the hunted.

You blink yourself awake and it's another day. You squeeze your eyes shut and it's another month.

/

For the first time in forever, it happens by chance. 

You turn a corner and there she is, cutting through a crowd without even trying, and you follow her from across the way. It's possible that she knows you are there, watching from afar, but something in her movements makes you think that she has no idea.

It's interesting to be on this side of things. To be the one scrutinizing so unabashedly, to be the one storing away details for future confrontations. And you wonder how many times she has done just this – to you, to everyone she has ever known, to every life she has coolly taken.

You've never been to her place. You've never come close, in all this time, no matter how many roads have inevitably been leading you here. But now here you are, hovering endless minutes after she's already gone up those stairs, and something inside of you is frightened.

Not scared. Frightened. After all, they are not the same thing, these feelings.

And you close your eyes for a moment, count the beats of your pulse, listen to the roar of blood in your ears. And you think about who you are now, today, in this very second. And before you can think anything else, you are walking and you are climbing and you are knocking on her door.

And if she is surprised to see you standing there, well... that's something you'll never know.

/

There is small talk, idle but still suspicious. There is food, too, and they sit down with their plates on their laps. Your eyes dart around once in a while, looking for exits besides the front door. She has a very sharp knife in her hand, cutting each bite leisurely, and she grins at you – just the once – and of course, you haven't forgotten who you are with right now.

You haven't forgotten anything. You haven't forgiven either.

She walks around you and you fight the impulse to turn around, to keep her in your sights. She pours you a glass of something, arm over your shoulder, and when she passes by you to the kitchen, you catch a glimmer in her eyes.

If she were anyone else in the world, you might say that she looks happy.

_“She's waiting for something... She's waiting for me...”_

You said those words once, long before you had any grasp on what they meant, but things are different now. You are certainly different now. Or just the same, but something in you has been untethered and there's just no getting it tied up again.

She's gazing at you – not staring, not watching – she's gazing, maybe she's always been gazing at you and you don't want to question anything, not with her looking at you like this, like you are her favorite toy, like you are strange and special to her, like you are the only person she's ever wanted.

And it's your turn, isn't it?

In this little war, this tale of boundaries and mayhem, of broken vows and dangerous consequences...

...it's your turn, your turn to leave another mark and she wants you to and goodness knows that's what you want as well.

The plate tips over and hits the ground, chipping on one side, and she braces herself, gleefully, as you approach and it's not practiced, not really, but you have found a rhythm with her – push and pull, spins and turns – you, wild with arms that are still learning and her, economical but on-target with every counter move.

You scramble. She lunges. There is more scuffling, tugging of hair – which is a low blow, honestly – but she laughs so loudly at your discomfort and it still makes you mad, mad but bizarrely euphoric, and you swing up and out with your elbow and you hear it, you hear the slight crack of bone to bone impact, and she's still laughing but also groaning, not tumbling backwards like you would, blood starting to slip out of her nose and onto her lips.

And of all the things you could do – help her, laugh with her, walk away, find that knife and take the only chance you might ever get to rid yourself of her – you decide on this instead.

This being that you jerk her hand away from her face and kiss her, copper and heat coating your tongue, and nothing has ever felt more wrong and nothing has ever felt more right.

Nothing at all.

/

It feels a bit like a dream.

Maybe that's all it is and you'll wake up soon and none of this will have happened. Your life was boring but safe. Your life was tedious but everyone you knew was alive. Your life was... it just was.

Or maybe that life was the dream, a bland but beautiful dream. And now here you are, in blinding technicolor, playing with fire over and over again.

You are a fool, she was right about that all along. You, with your simmering rage and your growing need, with a harsh longing that makes no sense. You, on this train back to London, sore but satisfied in ways that you are only just beginning to fathom. 

You, with her, bruises blooming from where neither of you can let the other go.

/ / /

**(end)**

**Author's Note:**

> Where's Nico? Who knows. And now I can take a break, heh. I haven't written this much in a long while and it's been nice to stretch those muscles. I'm gonna go back to watching the show only; if inspired to write more, though, I'm saving it for after the end of this season. Writing Eve has been a blast, too.
> 
> Listened to a handful of songs while writing this. Enjoy. And thanks for reading!


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